Magic Bullet
by KathainBowen
Summary: If a stranger offered you the chance to get away with murder... would you take it? Grissom has just received that offer in the form of 100 untraceable bullets. When the team's in grave danger, can he bring himself to do what's right CSIx100 Bullets
1. 100

**MAGIC BULLET : 100**

_**If a stranger offered you the chance to get away with murder...**_

_**would you take it?**_

He felt cold, so dreadfully, sickly cold, as though the heat were slipping away from him with each beat of his heart. He pressed down upon the wounds, feeling the warmth leaching out between his fingers along with a sticky, thick liquid that oozed out and about him. Those eyes stared up at him, begging, pleading for an end to the suffering.

"Gris..."

He glanced about madly, screaming, but his words were unintelligible even to him. He wasn't even certain it was English anymore. Even if it were, he did not think he'd be able to hear his own voice over the thundering of his own heart in his ears as it slammed in his skull.

A hand pawed at him limply, catching his shirt and his attention. "Gri..."

"Warrick," he breathed, his voice dropping to a barely audible whisper in what was the only thing he felt coherent of as a dozen Klaxon sirens wailed in his mind about differentials and the pints of blood a body could lose before death. "Hang on... It's going to be alright. You're going to be fine, Warrick."

But those dark eyes were already glazed as the body slowly went still and limp.

"Oh... god..."

xxxx

Dead.

Warrick Brown died in his arms, and Grissom had been completely unable to do anything to help him, to save him. He'd desperately tried CPR, pounding on the man's chest, but to no luck. Nothing. The paramedics arrived, took the CSI, and pumped epinephrine into Brown's veins in monstrously large doses, shocking his heart, but nothing. Not a damned flicker of a response. Warrick had been dead by the time Grissom got to him. His body just hadn't quite gotten the hint yet.

After the EMTs had taken Warrick from the scene, it was a simple matter of going through the motions, Grissom's own body and mind unreasonably and uncomfortably numb. He felt dazed and sluggish, as though the whole world moved in a viscous sludge about him, sucking the entomologist down and into it. He answered Brass's questions, but his own responses had little to no coherence nor meaning to Grissom. Catherine had tried to talk to Grissom and to assure her boss that she was certain he'd be cleared of all suspicion in no time at all, as one of the day shift crew called in on short notice to avoid potential conflict of interest cut away his shirt to collect and process any lingering trace evidence or potential GSR. Grissom understood the need, the protocol, but he couldn't have cared less. Nothing really mattered. All that mattered was the simple fact that Warrick had died there.

His head hurt, aching and throbbing with a building migraine, but even that didn't seem to be of any important anymore. Catherine must have noticed it, for, the next thing Grissom knew, he had been herded into her Crime Lab registered Denali. She must have gotten help from Stokes and Sanders in ferrying him to the truck. The woman was sharp and knew her superior well, Grissom had to give her credit for that. With him as a suspect and the term "conflict of interest" being bandied about and dropped here and there on a dime, Willows couldn't take him back to the Lab. Instead, she and the guys drove him home.

When he finally had a chance to take his medication, Grissom rubbed his bleary eyes and glanced across his own living room coffee table to survey the other three investigators. As always, Catherine bore an oddly warm expression, fetching her boss water like a mother hen. Stokes looked distant and contemplative, obviously bothered but equally as obviously not ready to process any emotions, still thinking about the murder in a clinical, investigative sense to avoid the messy jumble of grief that even Grissom knew would hit Nick as soon as the gravity of the situation, of his friend's death, hit home like a hammer blow to his heart. Sanders, however, looked like he had already hit that, shaking like a leaf, his eyes misty. He looked so much younger and so very innocent compared to the other, more seasoned CSIs. Grissom pondered how lucky the three of them were to be alive granted the sordid events their crime scenes brought them, wondered at how close the three of them- no, the four of them, including himself, and the rest of the team- had been over the years.

The next morning, Grissom was cleared of all wrong doing.

It had been a day now, and the body hadn't been released yet, but that didn't change the facts or the evidence. Dead. As in _gone_. As in _permanent_. As in just another victim lying out on Doc Robbins's slab to be stripped, studied, photographed, washed, and catalogued along with the evidence. The others couldn't bring themselves yet to even look at the body, but, as lead investigator and supervisor, Grissom felt it almost necessary to be present, despite Ecklie's protests. He wanted to be there. He needed to be there. He had seen Warrick Brown die, and a part of Gil Grissom needed the kind of bittersweet closure of bringing the killer to justice, even if it wouldn't bring Warrick back from the dead.

Ecklie and Robbins both threw Grissom out before the autopsy actually took place, and it nearly pushed Grissom over the edge. He found himself wandering, just walking the strip, his feet instinctively guided to the casinos and the rollercoasters he'd held so dear. Yet, even after a few hours of riding those, the rides had yet to yield their usual comfort and clarity. He'd been there. He'd watched Warrick die. No plunging drop, no corkscrews, and certainly not a damned loop-da-loop would ever change that fact. And the killer was still on the loose, with little to no leads or evidence.

In fact, there had been no evidence, really. The bullets recovered from Warrick's car matched bullets from the pistol found dropped at the scene. The serial number had been completely destroyed beyond any hope of restoration. Not a damned fingerprint. No blood. Nothing. Not a damned traffic camera pointed in that direction either, and the surveillance footage from the one security camera in the area had conveniently gone missing.

He had picked his favorite coaster to ride, and spent a few uneventful trips alone before a man in a pressed, ebony business suit slipped into the car beside him, despite all the other empty seats. Grissom might have argued, might have pointed out that there were plenty of other seats on the New York - New York Hotel & Casino's coaster, but he couldn't find it in him to argue after everything that had happened over the last weeks. Instead, Grissom merely gave him a quick survey. The man wore darkly tinted glasses, despite the black of night, hiding his eyes. He had the stereotypical look of a movie secret agent, right down to the damn neared deadly set of his features. The stranger came complete with an attache case, which he quickly stowed between his legs before buckling himself in the car.

When the attendant appeared to ensure their shoulder harnesses were down and secured and possibly lecture the newcomer that bags were not allowed on the coaster, the stranger beat Grissom to the punch of paying off the attendant with a crisp 100 bill. "On me."

Grissom shrugged it off and turned his gaze away. He wasn't about to argue with his random benefactor. The two of them sat in silent for a moment as the train before to coast free of the casino to the climb, jangling the entire way up the chain lift among the Las Vegas lights and the elaborate set dressing of the New York - New York Hotel. He had embraced the scenery so very often on several lonely contemplative rides down the coaster that Grissom had almost memorized the miniature version of New York City that sprawled about them. He smiled faintly at the fake Chrysler Building and the Statue of Liberty juxtaposed almost inappropriately against the Eiffel Tower just up the Strip, unable to even summon his usual appreciation of the effect.

Finally, his unusual companion spoke in a rough voice. "Dr. Gilbert Grissom."

It was only his name, yet it was more than enough to startle even the generally unflappable Grissom as the rollercoaster continued to ascend the initial climb. "Have... we met before?"

"No, but I know you very well."

Grissom furrowed his brow, peering over the increasingly steep drop to the side to hide even his own confusion at the situation. "And how is that?"

"Let's just say I've been following your career very closely, Dr. Grissom." The man smirked ever so slightly, a calculated expression. "Dr. Gilbert Grissom. Born August 17th, 1956, in Santa Monica, grew up in Marina Del Rey, California. Majored in biology in UCLA. Financed your first body farm at college through the winnings of a high stakes poker game. Very nice example you'd set for your students at Williams College."

As the coaster started to tip over the top of the first big hill, before the inertia could take hold, Grissom shook his head. "How did you...?"

The train screamed down the hill, rattling down the track deafeningly, but the stranger just bellowed over the noise, ignoring Grissom's question. "Night shift supervisor of the Clark County Crime Lab." Grissom couldn't watch the shifting Las Vegas skyline about them, unable to tear his gaze from the stranger's knowing look at the man in the suit continued, "Although, admit it: you really only got that position because Captain Jim Brass took a dive on the Holly Gribbs thing."

Grissom's jaw tightened, and it wasn't from the first harsh, jolting turn. The man in the suit knew about him, knew more about him that Grissom really cared for any stranger to know. He scowled at the stranger beside him that had dared invade both his solace of the coaster and his privacy.

"Who are you?" Grissom demanded in a half-growl.

The man flashed a twisted grin, but Grissom knew it wasn't from the ride as the train thundered through another tight turn and whipped about towards the hotel again. "Agent Graves. And, I assure you, the pleasure _is_, in fact, all yours."

"Why is that, pray tell?"

The man reached up once to tip his glasses down and draw a pistol, in a slick, cool motion despite the jarring of the coaster around them, cocking it with a dry click and pointing it at Grissom. "Because I am the man who's going to give you Warrick Brown's killer."

They sat in silence for the rest of ride, mostly because Grissom couldn't think of any rational to say to that without both his piece and some serious back-up, wondering if, perhaps, this man was really a contract killer, Warrick's murderer come to add another casualty from the LVPD Crime Lab to his list of hits. When the train finally came to a stop at the station, the ride attendants didn't approach as they usually did, as though somehow afraid of the man in the black, despite the fact that the stranger had been quite careful to keep his handgun out of obvious sight. Grissom sat, feeling pinned by the shoulder restraints of the ride, like a trapped rat amid a deadly viper.

"As the old cliche always goes, don't do anything funny," the stranger ordered.

Slowly, deliberately, the stranger took his glasses off, folded them, and tucked them into his breast pocket, keeping his handgun trained on his captive. Grissom tensed, half-expecting a quick and clean single GSW to the head at point blank range, a distant part of his brain illogically thankful for the close range since it would leave plenty of fresh, clean evidence. That is, a part of his mind was thankful for that before it dully sank in that Grissom wouldn't be the one to analyze the evidence of his own murder. He swallowed and held his breath, keeping his features as passive and unphased as he could muster, hoping the effect lasted though whatever this was and that this hitman didn't get the satisfaction of seeing a reaction from his victim.

With an air of eerie reverence, the man took the attache case from between his legs where he had somehow stowed it through the bumpy ride of the notoriously "rough" New York rollercoaster without any extra expended effort- all the while holding a casual conversation laced with a hint of impending doom. He set the brown case upon his legs carefully, gingerly. The man stared at the attache case as though it were a ticking time bomb for a moment, despite how innocuous it seemed. Grissom vaguely acknowledged the designer and manufacturer as Louis Vuitton based off of the repeating pattern of the logo, from a case revolving around murder and mayhem in a purse counterfeiting ring. In anyone else's hands, the attache might have seemed utterly mundane, but, in this stranger's hands, it could have held anything.

The man drew a deep breath before solemnly requesting, "I want you to think very clearly about how it felt to hold Warrick Brown as he died for a moment."

"I will not play into your game."

The man smirked. "I'm not asking you to. I'm only asking that you bear that in mind, that you remember that though it all."

Grissom sighed, feeling a truth gnawing at his gut. "I'll never forget."

"Good," the man said with a quick, curt nod.

The investigator let out another breath. "Who are you?"

"My name is Agent Graves, and I'm your new best friend." The man chuckled oddly even as Grissom committed the name and facial structure of his unwanted companion to memory. "Although, don't bother running my id. I know what you're thinking Dr. Grissom."

"Really now?" Grissom questioned, annoyed by the presumption.

Graves nodded. "You're thinking that I'm going to kill you but, if I don't, you're going to run my name, along with any and all prints and video images you find of me from the casino surveillance tapes." The stranger turned to Grissom and just about winked mischievously at the trapped CSI. "Don't bother. It will be a waste of your time and resources to search for a person who doesn't exist when you will have far more important matters to attend to."

Were Graves one of Grissom's CSIs, he might have been proud at such a keen insight. He had indeed been contemplating the scores of evidence to identify this Agent Graves if the stranger allowed him to live.

Graves smirked, waving his pistol almost fickly. "Now, Dr. Grissom, since the formalities of our identities have been addressed, how about we discuss business?"

"I'm not interested in any business with you."

"Oh, on the contrary. I assure you, you are," Graves announced sternly, reaching into his breast pocket to pull something, a photograph out and display it to Grissom. "Do you recognize this man, Dr. Grissom?"

The entomologist glanced over to study the photograph and furrowed his brow. "Undersheriff McKeen."

"Good. Very good."

Grissom frowned. "What does this have to do with Warrick Brown?"

"This man killed your esteemed Mr. Brown," Graves announced in a completely flat and emotionless tone.

The creases seemed to deepen in the investigator's face; Grissom shook his head. "Impossible."

"You, of all people, Dr. Grissom, should know what human beings are capable of when it comes to murder." Graves fixed him in a feral stare. "Dr. Grissom, this man is Lou Gedda's mole in the Las Vegas Police Department. He has secretly been working under the employ of Gedda for several years to ensure that no cases which could prove volatile to Gedda's rather... unsavory business were crushed before they could make it to trial. Leaked information to the mob. Tampered with, destroyed, and or just lost key evidence to several cases. Floated identities and locations of witnesses to Gedda to see that they never made it to trial." Graves paused there, letting the information sink in before finishing. "He believed that Warrick Brown was on to his identity as the mole in the LVPD and saw fit to silence him before Brown could make a case against him."

Grissom clenched his jaw, struggling for a moment to keep his cool composure when faced with such a tale. "I don't believe it."

"Oh, but you will." Graves smirked, grinning from ear to ear like a mad cheshire cat. "What is it you always say, Dr. Grissom? Ah, yes. 'The evidence never lies.'" The agent looked down to the case for but a second, eyeing it hungrily. "And, in this case, you will find irrefutable evidence to this fact."

"I'm sorry, but what agency did you say you were with, Mr. Graves?" Grissom questioned, ignoring the bait the stranger hung so tantalizingly before him.

"I didn't."

Grissom gave a single, stiff bob of his head. "What do you want?"

"Merely to give you this." Graves gave a jerk of his head in the direction of the attache in his lap. "Now, as I was saying, inside this case, you will find _irrefutable _evidence to the identity of the man who killed your friend, along with a handgun and one hundred rounds of untraceable ammunition."

"No bullets are untraceable," the CSI argued. "GSR, unique striations like individual fingerprints from the gun that fired it. There is no such thing as a magic bullet. I would think someone as supposedly smart as you are would know better."

"These, I assure you, _are_." Graves adjusted his tie slightly. "I have seen to it that any investigations will immediately cease once the bullets are retrieved should you chose to exercise terminal force. All untraceable and all yours to do with as you see fit. I am giving you complete _carte blanche._" The made smiled slyly. "You could say you could get away with murder."

"No one gets away with murder," Grissom snapped.

"Your... fish board should be evidence illustrating quite the contrary," the man pointed out. "I have ensured every possibly means to prevent even mild suspicion from landing upon you. The contents of this case of yours to act upon as you desire, and I leave it at that."

"What if I don't want to take it?" the CSI demanded bitterly.

"I have put you _above _the law, Dr. Grissom, in regards to the murderer of Warrick Brown, and you intend to just walk away?" Graves laughed a tiny, uneasy chuckle and shrugged. "Then, it will be left here for someone else, perhaps someone with lesser moral convictions to find." He gave a rather pointed, accusing glare over his glasses. "Care to make a wager on what they might do precisely with one hundred untraceable rounds?"

Grissom sighed, feeling rather mentally trapped now to match his physical entrapment. "I'm not a betting man."

"Not when the odds are stacked so badly against your favor."

"Why are you doing this?"

Graves shrugged in a faux-nonchalant way that suggested whatever he was about to say would be a lie or misdirection. "Perhaps I'm just a samaritan that wants to see McKeen go down for what he's done." Grissom smirked at the misdirection, even as Graves carried it on. "Perhaps I'm just a little insane." Graves drew a deep breath. "But, as you have always said, motive is not your business. Only evidence."

The CSI looked down, pursing his lips in a deepening frown. "I'm not a murderer."

"I'm not saying you are, Dr.Grissom," Graves replied to the assertion in a tone that hinted that he knew the statement had really been only for the speaker's benefit. "However, people with loftier morals than you and in far direr of situations have taken the opportunity despite claiming that they could not, would not."

"How dire?"

Graves pushed the attache case into Grissom's lap. "Undersheriff McKeen knows that the investigation into the mole is still pending, especially in the light of Warrick Brown's murder. He intends to keep a wary eye on your team. If he so much as suspects that any of your CSIs are getting close to his identity again... well, I suppose you can guess how that will end." He retrieved his dark sunglasses one more and slipped them onto his nose. "You've already lost one of the members of your team, Dr. Grissom, How many others do you need to lose before you decide the situation is dire enough?"

At that, Grissom had almost been tempted to throw open the attache case and just shoot Graves right there where he sat for even suggestion such a thing. Yet, a part of him could not. A part of him knew instinctively from Graves's mannerisms and speech patterns that the mysterious agent was telling the truth, or, at least, what Graves honestly believed to be the truth. Not a single sign of potential fabrication marred the perfectly calm facade to Graves through the entire thing, leaving Grissom faced with the terrible conclusion that whatever was in the case was evidence enough to the truth. It was evidence he had to get to the Crime Lab for analysis.

His hands involuntarily closed upon the attache, and Graves beamed at him in a sense of victory. "See?" Graves gave a nod to the ride operators, and the shoulder restraints released the two men. "Oh, and one another thing, Dr. Grissom." He pointed his handgun to the attache. "The contents of that case are for your eyes only. Show anyone, and I do mean _anyone_, any of the contents of that case, and I cannot be responsible for the repercussions."

"What sort of repercussions?" Grissom asked carefully, his mind already racing in delirious glee at the thousands of possibilities of what evidence could be in the attache while screaming at the same time to watch his own contact with it to avoid tainting the evidence Graves has left all over the outside of the case.

"Grave ones, Dr. Grissom."

Grissom smirked to himself. "You don't scare me, Agent Graves."

Grissom's smile nearly melted away entirely when he saw the almost macabre grin on Agent Graves's face before the stranger slipped back into the shadows that flanked the coaster station. "No. But I would be very afraid if I were you, Dr. Grissom. For Greg Hojem Sanders. For Catherine Willows-Flynn. For Nicholas Stokes. For Albert Robbins. And, especially for Sara Sidle. If the Undersheriff lives and discovers the contents of that case, you can be certain he will use all of his resources to silence you and whoever you might foolishly share this information with, and you just don't know who he might run into first."

"Sadistic bastard..."

"I may be," Graves admitted as the shadows seemed to pool about him. "But I assure you, I'm one of the good guys. And people like McKeen? They're most assuredly the bad guys."

And, with that, Graves melted away into the night.

**XXXX**

Author's Notes: Hi, I'm Kathain Bowen. You may know me from other fanfiction stories such as **DUMPSHOCK **(insert shameless plug here). I'm here to welcome you to **MAGIC BULLET**.

To catch you guys up who are a bit confused as well as to offer credit to where its due, **100 BULLETS **is the DC/Vertigo title by Brian Azzarrello that begs the opening question to this fic. It's an Eisner Award winner, so you know it's got to be good. The story features our mysterious Agent Graves, who occasionally approached the victim of a terrible wrong and offers them an attache case, 100 untraceable bullets, a handgun, the evidence of the person who wronged them, and the chance to set things right through whatever actions the individual feels the need to take. There's more to it, but anything else would be spoilers and territory I don't currently plan on heading towards (so don't worry about it. P )

So, now that Grissom has been offered the chance, and as the story continues, ask yourself what you would do when presented with the one hundred bullets.


	2. Ask First, Shoot Later

**MAGIC BULLET - Ask First, Shoot Later**

_**If a stranger offers you the chance to get away with murder...**_

_**would you take it?**_

For a long while, Grissom sat on one of the obligatory benches at the station platform to the New York - New York rollercoaster, considering the innocuous attache case carefully.

Graves had been slick, composed, and cool in the face of delivering his threats to the CSI, managing to pull a weapon and hold it trained on Grissom despite a rollercoaster ride that had often been described as "rough" at best and "bone-jarring-whiplash-central" at worst. It suggested the psychological profile of a man who had both seen and/or committed acts that required extreme concentration, focus, and skill in negotiations, intimidation, and firearms training. It suggested things that Grissom didn't care to think about but implied that, no matter what, Graves was a person who could handle both himself and his firearm in extremely bad situations. Graves's threat to his team could not have been clearer. If anyone found out about the case and its supposed contents, Grissom would be responsible for whatever repercussions the mysterious agent had hinted at. Grissom knew from what little he had seen of Graves that the stranger could be capable of delivering such repercussions without issue. After what had happened to Warrick, it was a risk that the entomologist was must assuredly _not _willing to take.

Compliance to the rules of engagement seemed Grissom's only option when it came to directly handling Graves. That, however, was a bit of a problem. Grissom had always been a maverick in his own sort of way, subtly bending the rules to fit his needs in any situation. He had to play this game carefully now that there was so much at stake, and Grissom knew it.

Grissom handled the case carefully as he slipped from the train and settled down on one of the benches to think, overly cautious to avoid touching any place on the attache where Graves may had left prints. A migraine slowly loomed upon the horizon, perhaps still lingering affects from the one that had struck the day before. Grissom distantly wondered if it really had been just yesterday. It somehow felt both raw and tight to think about Warrick, as though it were both an extremely old wound and an entirely new one at the same exact time.

Before the ride attendant could shoo him away, the man pulled a hundred dollar bill from his wallet, no where near as fresh as crisp as the one Graves had handed over. The man felt a small stab of pity that the poor kid had been saddled with the strange events of this night even as he paid the attendant off to buy some peace and quiet where he sat. Grissom had seen the boy on several nights, and the two of them had a respectful distance from one another. Grissom paid the kid well to just let him ride again and again without having to get on and off the coaster or go through lines over and over. The kid couldn't have been older than 21 or 22 in Grissom's estimates, and, judging from the text books he occasionally saw lurking about the turnstiles during these late shifts, he was just a college student, one that could use the money. Both Grissom and Graves had abused this fact, putting the boy in serious jeopardy.

The CSI sat and contemplated the case for a time and the words Graves had chosen to use. The man had put him into a predicament, surely. Grissom could ill afford to take any risks or poorly handle this considering both Graves's over threats and the possibility that the stranger had been telling the truth. Granted, the entomologist didn't truly relish the thought that the undersheriff really was Gedda's mole, especially granted what that would imply for the validity of all the cases that had involved McKeen. However, that wasn't what truly bothered Grissom. The fact that McKeen had immediate access and trust to be around his team while armed bothered Grissom. If McKeen really had killed Warrick, he could kill any of them whenever he wanted to, and no one, with perhaps the exception of Grissom now that Graves had suggested this, would be expecting it.

Grissom rested his forehead in his hands and listed his options mentally.

_Call it in. _

Meaning precisely that. Call and report the entire event, which meant that Grissom would be able to examine the case and its purported contents with the support of the lab. He'd also be able to secure a warrant and retrieve surveillance footage from the New York - New York Hotel & Casino to identify Graves off. However, Grissom knew he couldn't risk Graves's stern threat. Besides, as there was a distinct conflict of interest in Gil regarding both Warrick's death and Graves, he would be forced to recuse himself from the case, either by his own morals or by Ecklie, and Grissom knew instinctively that he had to see this through to the end. No. None of that made the possibility a workable solution.

_Call Brass._

Again. Not an option. Granted, Graves had not seemed particularly concerned with the detective when it came to listing potential victims, but Grissom and Brass had always had a sort of loose friendship between one another. Any fool could see that, and Graves was certainly no fool unless the entomologist missed his guess. Again, a risk Grissom could not willing take.

_Open the case. See the evidence. Take the offer?_

The first two seemed entirely possible solutions, yet Grissom couldn't. He would not chance tampering with the evidence if it was as irrefutable as Graves said it was. Grissom needed to handle it carefully.

As per taking Graves up on the offer to get away with murder, that was right out of the question. Grissom knew himself better than that. Not matter how irrefutable the evidence, no matter how terrible McKeen seemed painted in that awful light. no matter how much Grissom might have wanted it, Gilbert Grissom was no murderer. he only carried a service weapon occasionally and out of necessity alone. Rarely had he ever pulled it, and Grissom could not accurately recall ever firing it except at the range. While Grissom had always fancied himself a stoic and almost emotionless man, murder required an embittered passion or a cold detachment, neither of which was in Gil, not by a long shot.

_Run the evidence yourself._

Ah, now there was a potentially workable solution. However, there remained one small caveat. Grissom might, at that moment, be holding a highly illegal and unregistered firearm. Graves hadn't been too forth coming with his identity, so Grissom highly doubted the serial number would be intact. If he were to be caught strolling about the Lab with it, there was no question that it would be none other than Gilbert Grissom who would be put behind bars and not the killer.

Even worse, if Grissom worked the case at the Lab, it rose the very distinct concern of potentially tipping off whoever the mole was, whether actually McKeen or someone else. They could bolt and run or simply tamper with the evidence to make it inadmissible in court; the killer would get off scot free in that case without enough evidence to build a strong case. And, if any of the other CSIs got wrapped up in the case or caught on to it... again, Grissom couldn't possibly risk getting them involved between the lingering threats of both Graves and the mole.

_Run the evidence yourself - at home._

Now there, that was a plan. Gil raised his head up and smiled slightly to himself, still feeling a bit unnerved and rattled by the sudden appearance and disappearance of Graves but reassured. That was a workable plan. Gil could survey the evidence at home. After all, when the man really got down to thinking abut it, no matter how irrefutable the evidence may have been, there was no controlled chain of custody. Anything Graves had handed him in relation to the Brown case had already been rendered inadmissible against the undersheriff. Yet Grissom could use the case and any evidence that Graves had left, work that without putting the Lab or his team in jeopardy. Perfect.

_"No_," Grissom corrected himself. _"Not perfect" _

_"Maybe not perfect, but workable."_

Grissom took the attache case in his hands, holding it from the edges and avoiding any contact with either the handle of the latches upon it. Hopefully, he could lift some prints from the case. Only then could he truly stand any chance at perhaps catching both his mystery man Graves and the mole.

He left, ready to work, but there was one stop he had to make. Grissom had left his kit and his vehicle at the Crime Lab after being so unceremoniously thrown out of the morgue. He would need to retrieve both before doing anything about the attache and its purported contents. Grissom made it back to the Lab and locked the attache in the trunk of his car, feeling only mild relief that he had made it to his work without incident before recalling that was the easy part. The hard part would be getting his kit out without notice and suspicion.

Everything had been going according to plan. Very few members of the night shift were in the Lab at the time, leaving the entomologist free to slip in and out of his office with the much needed supplies. The one thing he had not been expecting, however, in Grissom's grand plans to smuggle his own kit out of the lab, was running into the undersheriff himself. Worse, in fact, Grissom almost barreled right into McKeen as he rounded a corner.

"Grissom," McKeen greeted as he regrouped from having nearly been knocked to the ground. He smoothed his jacket before truly addressing the CSI. "Ecklie said he dismissed you for the shift."

Grissom gave pause to consider his reply cautiously before conceding that, at that moment, the truth was likely the best and only option he had at the time. "He did."

The undersheriff swallowed. "How are you doing?"

The question was not what caught Grissom off guard. In fact, the entomologist had been expecting it from everyone he ran into, if anyone. McKeen hadn't needed to elaborate. When Holly Gribbs died, no one had taken it well, really, save to plunge headfirst into as much of investigation as possible to find her killer. Any fool would know what McKeen had meant by the simple statement.

Instead, it was the tone of voice with which McKeen had asked it. Soft, and almost solemn. Grissom carefully studied McKeen's face, searching the subtle details and nuances of the undersheriff's features. The entomologist had been doing that so often during interviews to assess any potential clues dropped by suspects that it had become a subconscious part of his nature purely when speaking with people on even mundane matters. This time, it had been anything but subconscious, as Grissom desperately scanned McKeen's face for any hint of misdirection or fabrication.

There was none to be found there, and Grissom's heart sank slightly. In his sharp, driving and almost agonizing need to find Warrick's killer, he had played right into whatever trap Graves had been setting for him. Why would McKeen be so keen on persecuting the mob when he was really a mole for Gedda? Really? Grissom had known McKeen for a time now, and, while he couldn't say the undersheriff was an entirely honest man, he had never seemed the criminal type. It made little sense, save that the mysterious and calculating Graves had set Grissom up, perhaps either for revenge, like the time Nick had been kidnapped and buried alive, or perhaps by Gedda himself into bringing an explosive into the lab. Grissom could have kicked himself for even thinking about taking the case inside, but felt utterly thankful that he had locked the attache in his car.

"Grissom?"

He hadn't realized he'd drifted away mentally until McKeen called his name again; Grissom coughed, clearing his throat. "Sorry. I was just thinking."

"I could see that," the undersheriff replied, folding his arms across his chest.

Grissom shrugged. "It has been a long few days."

McKeen sighed heavily. "Perhaps you should take some time off."

"No, I can't." Grissom glanced down, feeling uncomfortable in his own lab for the first time ever, knowing the man could have him put on an involuntary leave of absence, clawing for any excuse. "I need to work, keep my mind off of things."

McKeen smiled strangely. "Warrick?"

Grissom avoided the undersheriff's gaze, leaving that to be his only answer.

"This must be hard on you, Grissom." The undersheriff glanced down. "He was a good investigator. He will be missed."

There was a sincerity there that Grissom hadn't expected, a sort of soft grieving as though it was as much as the undersheriff could allow himself, granted both his hard-ass nature and his position of authority. The CSI never really took to much of the authoritative figures that lurked about the lab, always poking their heads in at just the wrong moment or making life utterly miserable with protocol. Yet, for a moment, Grissom saw what could have been endearment from the undersheriff, more so than he'd even seen from Ecklie, and he had worked with Ecklie for years.

McKeen ran his fingers through his hair as though nervous and pained, perhaps much more upset by Warrick's death than he had initially seemed to be. "But I promise you, we're going to do everything in our power to bring his killer to justice."

Grissom cocked an eyebrow. Were he not already studying McKeen so intently out of instinct and trained habit, he might not have noticed it. In fact, most experienced CSIs and detectives might have missed it themselves. It was only the subtlest of gestures, a small flick of McKeen's gaze down and to the left. When accessing memory, people tended to look to the right. When fabricating or creating, such as for deception and misdirection, they looked to the left, as McKeen just had in his own, tiny motion. It was a barely perceptible thing, possibly just an eye twitch, but it was enough to put the smallest tremor of doubt into Gil Grissom. Something about his story...

Grissom didn't have a chance to think of it further as McKeen inquired knowingly, almost suspiciously, "So, what's with the kit?"

"Ah,'' Grissom glanced down and forced a faux, sheepish shrug. "Brushing up on my technique."

McKeen nodded thoughtfully. "Anything in particular?"

Grissom shook his head, trying to be as nonchalant as possible. "Just... keeping sharp."

And, as though on cue for saving him like always, Catherine Willows rounded the nearest corner. Grissom could breath a mental sigh of relief at the sight of her. The woman had an uncanny knack of knowing when he was drowning when it came to authority figures that outranked him about the Lab, often bailing him out. If he weren't such a scientific man, Grissom might have been tempted to call it a "sixth sense" of hers. Whatever it was, there was no denying that Catherine had saved him hundreds of times over the years.

"Ah, Catherine, just the woman I wanted to see."

He must have caught her off guard, because Catherine started visibly before greeting him flatly and in obvious confusion, "Gil." She eyed his case. "Though you had the rest of the shift off?"

Grissom nodded slowly. "Yes. But you and I need to catch up on some cases."

Catherine's gaze drifted to McKeen for a moment, before nodding. "Yeah." She furrowed her brow. "How about my office?" She shot him a knowing look of concern. "Actually, I have something to discuss with you... in private."

"Works for me." He smiled congenially at McKeen. "Until tomorrow, then."

McKeen gave a small, polite bob of his head and allowed the two CSIs to pass by. As they walked side by side, Catherine turned to Grissom, her eyes filled with curiosity and worry. The entomologist glanced over his shoulder and noted that, while McKeen did not seem all that interested in either CSI, the undersheriff seemed to be lingering in the middle of the hallway oddly. Grissom looked to Catherine, frowned, and merely gave his head a subtle shake to silence any questions and send a clear message. _Not yet. _Grissom kept his stride even and his face impassive as they walked though.

When they did finally reach her office, Catherine shut the door behind him before asking, "Now, what was _that_ all about?"

Grissom looked down to his case, feeling the weight of his kit not all that different from the weight of a certain attache case. He couldn't tell Catherine. No matter how much she deserved to know, Grissom couldn't tell her until he was certain there wasn't any danger from both Graves and McKeen.

He sighed. "McKeen wanted to... talk."

"Emotions never were your strong suit, were they, Gil?" Catherine accused in a friendly, teasing voice, folding her arms across her chest.

Grissom smirked slightly, giving a tiny shrug of his shoulders. "It has been a frequent accusation."

"You have _got _to stop using me as an easy out. It's getting old, Gil. Real old."

He nodded, pursing his lips together. "Sorry, Catherine." The images of Graves bearing the ominous case, McKeen smiling too broadly for someone mourning, and Warrick bleeding out far too swiftly jumbled together in Grissom's mind for a moment; he forced it back to continue, "I don't particularly care for sharing personal things with people I know little to nothing about."

"Ah," Catherine breathed, a disappointment lingering on the word.

Grissom furrowed his brow at her. "What?"

The woman sighed, shaking her head and poking at some imaginary pebble at the floor. "Well, it's just... Warrick's family called. They were looking for someone to say something at the services." She paused, prodding a bit more violently at the nonexistent but nevertheless offending pebble. "They wanted you."

"Me?" In a movie, it might have come out as a blurted question, but, in Grissom's case, it sounded soft and hesitant, as though afraid.

Catherine sighed. "If you don't want to do it, I'll call hi-"

Grissom shook his head. "No. I'll do it."

**XXXX**

**Author's Notes: **By the by, Kalson, I'm very flattered by your review. _Lex Talionis _is one of my FAVORITE fics! I promise, more action shortly.


	3. Biting the Bullet

**MAGIC BULLET - Biting the Bullet**

_**If a stranger offers you the chance to get away with murder...**_

_**would you take it?**_

Grissom did not immediately open the attache case upon his return home. He felt the nagging in the back of his mind to just tear that damned thing open and spill the contents out onto his coffee table to examine whatever it was that Graves had left him in the seemingly innocent brief case.

Yet, Grissom had always been a man of near infinite self control. He needed to be if he could ever hope to properly analyze any evidence the stranger had left him. The investigator set the attache case upon the table alongside his kit and strode away from it purposely to go through the motions of making a small meal and eating it in peace. He sat calmly at the kitchen table, staring for some time across the open floor plan of his apartment to the attache case where it rested upon the table, almost begging to be examined, ripped apart, and scoured for evidence. He made himself a cup of tea and stood in the kitchen, frowning at the thing as though it could actually say something or argue back.

Finally, Grissom stood, walked across the apartment, sat, and opened his kit. The forensic scientist in him took over as he pulled on latex gloves from his kit and studied the case. Slowly, methodically, the man took haddonite white power and began to apply it over any of the surfaces that could potentially bear a usable print. The entomologist took his time, leaving no surface unscoured. The locks. The handle. The edges. Graves had been quite careful indeed not to leave any fingerprints upon the case at all on the exterior. The only prints Grissom lifted where likely his own judging by the characteristic break in a whorl pattern identifying his own index fingerprint where he had a small scar from accidentally slicing the tip of his finger at a crime scene. Grissom conceded a point to Graves.

Then, there was the matter at hand. Grissom took a moment to steel himself, uncertain of what exactly might be in the case as the purported _irrefutable _evidence as Graves had claimed. The investigator considered once more whether he truly wanted to take the word of a potential mad man in this matter. It could have been a trap after all, a bomb waiting to blow up right in Grissom's face, whether an actual incendiary or a metaphorical one.

Curiosity got the better of him, and Grissom unclasped the latches. There was no turning back now. He held his breath as he opened the case. Sure enough, nestled inside the plush interior, rested a gleaming pistol. A Colt Double Eagle to be precise. Beside that, to the right sunken into little slots, was the one hundred bullets. They all looked perfectly normal and utterly mundane. He studied both the handgun and the rounds before looking to what had been placed to the left of the attache's interior. There seemed nothing out of the ordinary with the ammunition and the pistol, nothing that should or would yield an untraceable round. He tried to lift prints from the handgun and a few of the bullets bound found not a single fingerprint.

Then, did Grissom turn his attention to what had been placed to the left in a neat bundle. There was a fabric parcel of some form. Grissom tested it with his gloved fingers and found the cloth to give but only ever so slightly. The man lifted the strange bundle from the attache and set it down upon the table, frowning at it. Then, with great caution, Grissom unwrapped the white, thin, cotton cloth to reveal the interior contents. On the inside of the bundle, was a dvd-r and a cellular phone; the phone had seen some damage and had a mild, foul odor of vegetable rot, as though it had been in garbage once. If Grissom knew he could trust in Archie's safety, he would have taken both directly to the AV tech, but the man could not take that chance.

He set the phone aside to unfold the cloth and found it to be a button down dress shirt, mens. Grissom draped the shirt across his table and turned the entire thing over a few times, studying it carefully. The shirt size was a few sizes larger than his own and any reasonable guesses he would have made at Graves's size, suggesting that the article belonged to someone else. More than that. It looked familiar, like he had seen it once before. There was a subtle twist to the fibers at regular intervals from when the fabric had been loomed, leaving a fine, implied pattern of pin stripes on the white in tiny downward diamonds. A unique weave. One Grissom most certainly thought he should have known judging by the size and the pattern, like he had seen it before but never truly noticed.

Something caught his attention at the hem of the sleeve. There was but the faintest blush of color peppering the cuff of the right sleeve. Grissom picked up the shirt to lift it closer to his eyes to studying it intently. There were two distinct shades of stain. A dark, garnet red, almost brown along with the slightest of grey black hazes like cordite. Grissom recognized the arterial spray without luminol but swabbed and tested for both the presence of blood before checking to ensure that it was human blood. Judging by the patterning and the gsr, the shirt had been stained while shooting someone at close range. Someone like perhaps Warrick Brown in a tiny, cramped car in the parking lot by the Peppermill?

Grissom shook his head to shuffle loose the thought as his phone rang; the man glanced at the number and spotted Catherine's name. He pursed his lips together, knowing she was likely only calling to make sure he was working on a fitting eulogy for Warrick. The woman probably feared a repeat of being left to give an unwritten speech in Grissom's place if he were called away. The man silenced the offending phone to set it down on the table and continue perusing the evidence Graves had left him.

There was only one thing left. The dvd-r. Grissom turned it over in his hands. He made sure to hold it under the light and survey both sides for any prints, partial or full, knowing Graves hadn't left him any to find even before he checked.

Grissom stared at the dvd-r for a second, noting the burn pattern. There wasn't much information to the disc judging by the short breadth of the burn. However, the investigator now had doubt of what could potentially be in whatever short timeframe left marked upon the disc. Worse. Upon closer inspection, he noted that this was no ordinary Maxwell disc purchased at a local Staples or BestBuy. At least, they might have been available at retail stores, but people weren't likely to purchase or use them in their home granted the nature of the disc. This was a dvd-d, a disposable dvd. There seemed a faint discoloration that distorted and bent in the light, but, upon closer inspection, it turned out to be more than that. It was an oxide film, spreading across the back of the dvd and ruining any content before Grissom's eyes.

The investigator lunged for his laptop, ripped it open, and shoved the disc into the drive roughly before it could destroy its self any further. It took a moment to load, and, unsurprisingly, there was a blank title for the disc. Grissom sat back, wringing his hands in anxiety before hitting 'play' and sitting back to view the contents. The missing surveillance footage of the parking lot. Mere moments later, after the disc had finished and become completely unreadable, thus destroying the most irrefutable evidence he had ever been handed in his life, Grissom launched the laptop into the wall in rage. The entomologist sat there, trembling in anger for a few moments, just staring at the handgun and the 100 bullets.

Much as he hated to admit it, Graves was right; McKeen had shot Warrick in cold blood.

xxxx

Gilbert Grissom strove to never be an emotional person by nature. In fact, the entomologist found a smug satisfaction at the thought of his own stoic facade. The man rather enjoyed watching his colleagues try to make some sense of his thoughts and feelings at any given time, especially when they were completely off.

Emotions were a weakness, at least for a crime scene investigator. The occupation left little room for sentiment or error committed as a result. Investigators that allowed their emotional attachments get the better of them often made critical errors in judgment or missed glaring clues left at the scene. Grissom could ill afford either, especially now. Emotions got in the way of rational thinking, dulling the mental edge the CSI had over the criminals of Las Vegas, the only real weapon Grissom bore, in his humble opinion. It was the only weapon he could bear in whatever game unfolded around him between McKeen and Agent Graves.

His palms were sweaty and hot, but Grissom didn't feel it. Instead, he still felt the sickening sensation of blood on his hands. Not his own blood, mind you, but Warrick's. Grissom had been through hundreds and maybe thousands of autopsies and crime scenes in his career, and blood had never once bothered him. He'd seen far worse. Yet this blood had utterly horrified the unusually cool and composed man. It turned his stomach even then, after washing so many times with just about every disinfectant and every soap Grissom could get a hold of, even after scrubbing down until his skin felt as raw as his own heart. A part of Grissom felt his hands would never be clean of the blood, no matter how often he washed, as though he would forever be stained and sullied by the death of his co-worker, his colleague, and his friend.

_"Out, damn'd spot! Out, I say!- One; two, why then_

_'tis time to do't.- Hell is murky.- Fie, my lord, fie, a soldier and_

_afeard? What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our_

_pow'r to accompt? - Yet who would have thought the old man to_

_have had so much blood in him?"_

Gilbert Grissom, while not a great lover of his own emotion, always appreciated literature, particularly the classics and anything related directly to the psychology of murder, whether of the victim, the perpetrator, the police, or the investigators. _Macbeth _and _Hamlet _were among his favorites, nestled snugly right alongside such great modern works as Jane Goldman's _Dreamworld. _Only Sara Sidle had seen his personal library of fiction, tucked away in his back closet and away from the prying eyes of anyone who might enter his apartment, along with a few personal items, and even she had been taken back by the intensity of some of the novels and plays hidden there. Grissom had shared the better parts of his collection with Sara when she had asked, delighting in her little reactions as she read in the living room or in bed before they went to sleep for the night, especially the way she cocked her eyebrow at the more shocking of clues. The man had adored the way she would sometimes sort out the killer long before even he had figured it out.

He'd thought more and more of that collection anymore, especially Lady Macbeth and her "out damn'd spot" scene. Any time he looked at his hands and saw the scarlet of the blood there, forever burned into his memory, or anytime he felt the warm stickiness of that terrible night, Grissom heard the mad Lady Macbeth echoing in his mind. Anytime he caught sight of McKeen, he heard the Lady Macbeth crying out in his mind, pointing out the murderer that he just couldn't seem to find anyway to bring to justice. Even as he stumbled uneasily through his greetings, Grissom could hear Lady Macbeth cackling away and taunting in the back of his mind. Grissom made a mental note to immediately destroy his copy of _Macbeth_. Without Sara in his life, no one would ever know the book had ever been in his possession.

Grissom drew a deep breath and almost immediately tripped over his carefully practiced opening remarks, feeling the eyes of the crowd upon him. He felt hot and uncomfortable there, before everyone, his tie suddenly too tight and choking. Were Grissom any other man, he might have fidgeted, reached up and loosened it or awkwardly cleared his throat, yet that was not in Gil Grissom. Even if it were in Grissom, the occasional flashbulb from the back of the massive hall was more than enough to curtail such nervous ticks.

It bothered Grissom, the flashbulbs and the distant hiss of both scribbling pens on slender notebooks and recorders from the back of the hall. Originally, the family had intended for there to be a small service, limited to immediate relations and close friends. They had planned to hold the wake in a quaint funeral parlor owned and operated by an old family acquaintance before an intimate church service in a tiny chapel, really intended only for the same, limited guest list. They had felt it an act of respect to a man who, while he wasn't a hermit like Grissom, enjoy a sort of privacy to his life. However, as word hit the media over what had happened during a light news week, the "intimate" mass and interment turned into a media circus. Every newspaper, magazine, and news crew had immediately come calling, demanding and begging for entrance. In the end, the family had relented. Now, a sea of strangers were packed into the back half of a massive church, all waiting with bated breath for Grissom to finally settle and speak.

Grissom glanced down to the second row. As always, there was Catherine Willows, ever an emotional pillar to him. She had he had worked together for years, much longer than anyone else in the Crime Lab. She had always been there for him, and vice versa. The decision had come down to the two of them regarding who would actually speak that day. Grissom volunteered, but he now found himself strangely wishing he could take it back. The woman smiled serenely in commiseration and encouragement.

Catherine sat at the end of the aisle and of their team. Beside her, sat Greg Sanders, his head bowed. It was the first time Grissom had ever seen the young CSI look so still. Greg's hair and clothes honestly subdued and neat. Black suit, ebony tie, white shirt, and slicked back hair in an utterly normal style. Nick Stokes must have helped him. Stokes stared ahead solemnly at Grissom, just waiting. Beside him sat Jim Brass and, beside the detective, Sophia Curtis, her blonde hair swept up in an almost matronly bun. She had been wedged between Brass and a rather uncomfortable looking Conrad Ecklie. Archie. Dave and Doc Robbins representing the medical examiner's office. A few others Grissom couldn't name at the moment.

"I have met..." Grissom started flatly, but, in an instant, the words felt contrived and foolishly naive as soon as they spilt from his lips.

There came a creak at the door in the back. All of the heads of the audience snapped to the back of the massive church, but only Grissom felt both a sense of sweet relief and intense dread as she slipped in between the massive, wooden doors. Sara Sidle. She wore a plain, dark dress suit, her hair hanging limply about her pale face. Her eyes were red and puffy, as thought she'd been crying hard and long, but, to Grissom, there could be no lovelier of a sight. It was just utterly depressing to see her under such circumstances. She glided down the aisle and took her seat beside Catherine, pausing only to give her former boss a warm and comforting hug. Then, she lifted those dark, brown doe eyes of hers to the man at the pulpit.

Grissom swallowed and shuffled at his cards for a moment, mindful of the task at hand. He stared at the words he'd poured over the night before until late in the office, but the carefully scored notations blurred. The neat cursive now looked like nothing more than chicken scratch. The man frowned, pursing his lips together in an almost petulant expression. Then, Grissom slipped the now completely meaningless cards into the inside breast pocket of his jacket.

Grissom took a moment to compose himself before beginning in earnest. "I had spent several hours last night trying to pen the perfect thing to say, the right things to talk about. Writing. Editing. Rewriting." He paused, making sure to rein in any lingering inappropriate emotion. "Yet, what honestly is the _right_ thing to say?" Grissom's gaze swept across the crowd, now unhampered without cards to focus on. "What can you say?"

He had been there that night. Grissom's hands had been upon his chest, applying as steady and even of pressure as possible in a failed attempt at staunching the blood loss. He had watched as his friend breathed his last. Those last breathes had first been labored and obviously torment, before growing steadily shallower, despite his best efforts to drag the man back from the dead. He'd spoken at first to the bleeding man beneath him, then yelled, then pleaded. Grissom had begged, for the first time in a long time, prayed to a God he still wasn't entirely certain existed if things like... like _that _ could still happen to good people in this world.

Grissom looked to Catherine, almost desperate for help. She just gave a small bow of her head, as if imploring him to go on to just continue through his speech.

The man sighed and looked down, catching sight of McKeen. The undersheriff just... _sat _there, all innocent and in grief, it seemed, but Grissom knew the truth. He had seen the undersheriff for what he was; a murdering sonovabitch, and nothing more. McKeen was Grissom's damned spot that would not be washed clear. The entomologist clenched his fists to keep his calm.

"A good man is dead."

The words were barely a whisper. Grissom's sight drifted to the closed coffin before him and the sprays of white lilies set atop it, and he felt himself trailing off again. Catherine moved out of the corner of his eye, and Grissom was swallow once more. He cleared his throat and brought his gaze back up. Catherine slowly sat once more and gave a small nod.

Grissom shook his head. "No. A friend is dead. What can you say at a time like that?"

There was an uncomfortable moment as Grissom seemed to be asking for a response, his eyes demanding an answer from the crowd as equally as interrogating his prime suspects. It had been a mournful lament, but something about Grissom's tone made it an intense accusation. Several members of the mourners, the media, and even the Crime Lab employees shifted awkwardly in their chairs, looking rather guilty. Only two men seemed unperturbed by the question. One wore a black suit and dark glasses towards the middle of the crowd, his lips taut in a wolfish smirk. Graves. The other sat towards the front row, his sharp and knowing gaze fixated upon Grissom almost pressingly despite the cool composure on the rest of the features. McKeen.

"I had been asked to speak today about the life and times of a friend and colleague pertaining to the work that had become his life, especially in this last, trying year. I had even written in what would have certainly been a boring and trite eulogy about that aspect to his life." Grissom gave his head a toss once more, a terse and nervous gesture now more than anything. "It never fails that I get asked what our task really is. We collect evidence, yes. We prove beyond shadow of a doubt who is the guilty party in a crime, yes. But that is not our task. That is merely our job."

Sara seemed to be smiling, but only slightly. Her pale, pink lips curled at the edges in her own, private reverie. Her hands were clasped in her lap. She kept herself reserved as much as possible, but her eyes spoke volumes. She knew the answer to his unasked question.

"Our task is to speak for the dead, for those who can only speak through us and though the evidence left behind." Grissom smiled. "Warrick Brown tells me that he lived his life to the fullest everyday, no matter how much we the authorities of the Crime Lab bogged him down with meaningless paperwork and red tape. He tells me this through the history of his life and the evidence left behind in the people he held dear, in the faces of all of you."

All eyes were upon him. It felt pervasive almost, to be attempting to share something so bittersweet, so tender, with so many strangers. Grissom didn't like it, feeling like he'd been thrown out in front of the firing squad, but he reminded himself that it had been his choice, his voluntary sacrifice in the last act of kindness and friendship he could grant Warrick Brown. When Grissom surveyed the crowd, however, it was the man in the black suit, emotionless and stolid that took him off guard once more. Grissom had often told investigators, particularly rookie CSIs to look for what didn't belong, and this man most certainly didn't belong with his haunting, predatory smirk and those darkly tinted glasses. Graves. Both he and McKeen had the look of lean, fierce wolves amid a sea of fat, lazy sheep. It disturbed Grissom worse than the feeling of any other eyes upon him, as though the eyes bore straight through him even through the glasses. Both Graves's and McKeen's presences tainted the church, spoiled it somehow.

Grissom coughed and rather quickly blurted out, "I had a far longer speech, but there is nothing I can say that could sum up the life of my colleague and friend more than what is written in the hearts and minds of the people who's lives he touched. No words, no single bit of evidence, no matter how crucial, that can encompass the whole of a person's life and their impact on even the smallest of scales."

He looked to the casket sadly, still feeling the unnerving gaze of Graves upon him even when he looked down. Grissom felt the weight of the attache case in his hands, the heft of the handgun and the one hundred bullets. He felt Warrick's blood upon his hands. The entire world seemed to condense down to a series of disjointed sensations all pressing down upon Gilbert Grissom all at once even as his gaze drifted to McKeen and settled there accusingly. He gave a curt nod, knowing now what he had to do with that one hundred bullets.

"Warrick, you will be missed, more than you could ever know."

And, with that terse, jolted statement, it was over; close one door and open the next.

And, unknown to Grissom, Graves was nodding slowly in approval.

xxxx

Burials held no less social anxieties for Grissom than the mass. The only fortunate thing about moving from the church to the cemetery would be the lonely drive over there. He'd taken one of the Crime Lab SUVs as soon as he learned that the media would be welcome to Warrick's funeral services, hoping that the vehicle would garner some additional recognition and assistance in keeping the procession to the cemetery orderly and without undue interruption. He had also taken it to avoid riding with the rest of the lab staff in any of the livery cars provided to them, especially the crowded limo that would escort the night shift to the cemetery. Grissom wanted time to be alone with his thoughts after such an awkward eulogy.

His original plan had included slipping out of the church before the end of the mass to give himself a little extra moment head start on both the other mourners and the mysterious Graves, but even that seemed out of the question when a pair of high heel shoes sounded on the stone steps behind him at the front of the church. Grissom sighed, half-expecting it to be Catherine come to check on him, but, when he turned to face her and chide the woman for it, it wasn't Catherine.

"Sara," he breathed.

The woman smiled awkwardly, like a school girl almost, as though uncertain what exactly to say or do. "That was... unusual."

Grissom shrugged. "I'm not good at speeches. You know that."

"Yeah. Catherine told me about you ditching her for the prom murder/kidnapping case." Even after all that time, Grissom mildly winced at the jest of leaving Willows to deliver a keynote speech in Ecklie's honor, but the joke was a welcome one that helped to dispel some of the tension between them as Sara went on. "I'm sorry, you know?" Grissom didn't reply but did slightly raise an eyebrow; the woman toyed with her hands. "I'm sorry I wasn't here. I should have been here. For Warrick." Sara looked down at the toes of what even Gil had to admit were daring heels even for her. "For you."

Anything else she could have said would have been better than that. Sara's leaving was a whole other angry welt upon his soul that Grissom didn't feel he could handle at the moment. Perhaps not ever. He held up a hand in protest, stopping anything else she could say and letting a heavy, almost palpable silence yawn between them.

Then, Sara spoke again. "Grissom, if you..." She shook her head. "If you want to talk... you can call me."

"I know..." He paused, thinking over the words carefully as the door creaked open and McKeen slipped out, his cellphone open and in hand to take a call. Grissom gave a quick toss of his head. "I can't."

Sara nodded her head curly, clearly upset by his cold distant and indifference to her. "Well... okay then."

The woman turned to return to the church, but Grissom called out to her, stopping her dead in her tracks. "Sara... wait." She turned to face him, but Grissom looked away. "Sara, I..." The day was getting to be too much for Grissom, far too much, and the words were hard to form. "I want to talk. About Warrick. About... us." Sara nodded imploringly, but the man just sighed as a sinking feeling settled over him like the weight of a certain Colt in his right hand. "I just... I can't. Not right now."

"Alright," Sara said slowly. "Whenever you're ready."

With that, she strode back inside and left Grissom out on the steps by himself, more alone than he'd ever been in his life as his gaze shifted back and forth between the door Sara had just gone through and the murderer no more than ten or twelve feet away just chattering away on his phone.

xxxx

The burial had been more of the same pomp and circumstance, all unnecessary and suddenly, brutally devoid of meaning in Grissom's opinion. He'd kept to the fringe of the group, preferring to remain just outside the scope of the ceremony and the prayers. This wasn't his place amid family and mourners. He didn't belong. Not when his mind churned over Sara's words, over the thought of finding Warrick's killer and putting them away for the rest of their natural life. He slid away from the crowd just before the end of the rites as easily as he had slipped from the church, keeping a wary eye out for Graves, but the mysterious man seemed to have vanished into the ether. Grissom stuffed his hands in his pockets and crossed the cemetery quickly, darting between the headstones and statuary like a distant dream.

Grissom climbed into the driver's seat of the SUV shortly before the emotions of the day took hold of him. He felt a tear stream down the side of his cheek even then as he thought of it. Grissom roughly scrubbed it away, choking back the lump in his throat and forcing down whatever it was that turned in him, twisting his heart. He trembled from the effort but settled in a moment.

The entomologist turned the key in the ignition and glanced up long enough to notice the rear view mirror had been knocked out of alignment pretty badly and now reflected just a scrap of center console. Grissom furrowed his eyebrow. He could not accurately recall, but Grissom felt certain the rear view mirror hadn't been that way when he was driving nor when he got out of the SUV at the cemetery. Grissom reached up to adjust it and found a pair of dark, hungry eyes staring back at him through the mirror from the back seat, the same, predatory eyes he had felt upon him in the church. Graves.

There came a dry click of a firearm being cocked in the backseat before the man ever spoke.

**XXXX**

**Author's Notes: **Sorry it took so long, but I has been a bit busy with **Dumpshock**_**. **_


	4. A Different Caliber

**MAGIC BULLET : A Different Caliber**

_**If a stranger offers you the chance to get away with murder...**_

_**would you take it?**_

During her time away, Sara Sidle had received exactly sixteen e-mails and four phone calls that could be summed up rather easily in three words. "Please come back." A few had been obviously grudgingly from Catherine Willows and Conrad Ecklie, trying to persuade her to return so they wouldn't have to go through the lengthy interviewing process to find a suitable replacement. A couple had been from Greg, Nick and Warrick, all full of jokes and fond memories about working together, a bit more subtle and far more effective at tugging at Sara's heartstrings than Ecklie's or Willows's clinical letters suggesting she "keep her options at the Crime Lab open." The one that had almost gotten her was from Jim Brass.

However, during all that time, the one letter or phone call Sara had hoped for never came, the one message that might have drawn her back to the desert city. She often checked her e-mails, absentmindedly clicking the refresh button in a desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, _he _might write to her and ask her to return. After a while, Sara had realized what a fool's game it was. Grissom wasn't the sentimental sort of person to write love sonnets begging her to come back to him, nor to come crawling after her. She'd been an idiot to wait so long for him, and, after a while, Sara found herself checking her e-mail less and less frequently.

The one call she had never expected was the phone call she received from Conrad Ecklie a few days ago. He had spoken in solemn, uneasy tones, asking how she was and how her new employment treated her with a genuine interest. The strange, piqued inquiry of Ecklie's came right out of the blue and startled Sara, putting her on edge. Ecklie hadn't ever cared before. Coupled with the odd, almost pained way Ecklie tripped over his own words, as though he were ungracefully dancing about a giant pink elephant in the room, left Sara with an unsure feeling. She finally outright asked what had happened, only to hear of what had happened to her friend, to Warrick. A part of Sara broke down and cried, sobbing on the inside, while the calm, rational part of Sara held together with a cool composure to take down the necessary information regarding the plans for funeral services and make appropriate travel arrangements. She had listened, planned, and packed with an odd detachment, the same distance to Grissom that had once bothered her to no end.

Sara sighed to herself as she drove in the funeral procession to the cemetery. The others might not have seen it, but Grissom was hurting on the inside, and badly. Sara had known him long enough and intimately enough to see through his multifaceted facades of stoic grace and professionalism. She had known it the moment she saw him stumble through his unusual eulogy, only to confirm it when Sara followed him from the church for their awkward conversation.

Grissom had never been one to share much with anyone, let alone Sara. During their relationship, she often felt like he was a puzzle, a mystery not too unlike a crime scene. While it was true that Gilbert Grissom could be a tender, compassionate as well as passionate man to those very few people he allowed close to him, it was equally true that Grissom concealed much about himself even from those lucky few, especially his annoyances and sorrows. In those rare moments of sadness, Grissom often forced even Sara to rely on scant little scraps of evidence and ultra-subtle mannerisms to truly get an accurate picture of what was going on in his head. It had been a game, and one Sara excelled at.

At least, she had always thought that up until she had her jolted conversation with him. Grissom had been uncomfortable, clearly. He had been sweating through the eulogy, but only subtly so and not worn upon his brow. Sara had noticed how he fidgeted oh-so slightly with his hands during the speech. And, then, there had been the almost callous way he so quickly and easily dismissed her offer for support and to just talk. Grissom had seemed so near to telling her something when they were so rudely interrupted by McKeen, closing anything between them. There had been an odd, disdainful look to Grissom's eyes when McKeen brushed past them on his phone, such a faint little glare that Sara herself might not have caught it were she not looking so studiously upon him. She felt like Grissom had been giving her so many clues as to the current nature of his psyche, but Sara just stared wistfully at them, hoping to make some desperate sense of them to understand how to deal with Grissom hear and now after everything that had happened between them.

As such, when the funeral party moved to the cemetery for the burial, Sara kept a closer eye on Grissom when she could afford to dart glances in his direction without arousing any suspicion from the other attendants or her former lover. Easier said than done. Sara had slipped into the service with little notice before taking her seat at Catherine's side. The other CSIs had been too focused on the eulogy and on Grissom. Yet, now that they knew Sara had come back, she kept finding their gaze upon her, their eyes curious and pondering. That, coupled with the natural distance Grissom kept from the man portion of the party, made it harder for Sara to really get anything from him that whole time.

Worse. When Sara finally felt she had a moment to really look to Grissom with any sort of honest inquiry, while the others were consumed with the closing prayers, the woman turned to see him stalk off on his lonesome. Sara furrowed her brow but slipped away from the others to follow, trailing a hundred or so few behind him through the rows of tombstones. In retrospect, Sara couldn't explain why she followed Grissom; she just did, following along an intrinsic pull. Sara would come to be utterly thankful for that.

When he reached the string of vehicles, headed by the now empty hearse flanked by a few groundskeepers looking utterly bored with the proceedings, Sara hung back, watching curiously. Grissom unlocked his SUV, burrowed from the Lab, climbed into the driver's seat, slammed the door behind him, and paused. Sara's heart melted when she saw him cry. Gilbert Grissom rarely cried. In fact, the woman would be hard pressed to remember the last time she thought her former lover came anywhere near close to crying. She frowned as he roughly scrubbed his face.

Sara stepped from her surveillance spot to approach the SUV and perhaps offer some small comfort to him when something strange happened. Grissom collectef himself, adjusted the rear view mirror, and stiffened. Sara froze. Her eyes went wide as she just stared, a mild shiver running down her spine as Grissom remained as solid and composed as ever despite the clear tension in his body. Grissom's eyes flicked to the side, and, for a moment, she thought his gaze met hers, even as she saw the shadow of another person in the SUV, someone who had laid in wait for Gil.

"Come on, Gil," Sara whispered to herself. "Just get out of the car and walk away."

But Grissom did neither.

xxxx

"What do you want?" Grissom demanded as he stared into the rear view mirror at the skulking man in the back seat of his SUV.

The rather dangerous looking Graves gave a small shrug of his shoulders and a fickle wave of his pistol. "Why don't we just go for a little drive?" He flashed a toothy, wolfish grin. "We can figure the rest out from there."

Grissom slowly nodded in concession, his mind already wandering, already considering the rather dire possibility that this man in the back seat in his black suit and tie, had facilitated in Warrick's murder. After all, it was Graves who had provided Grissom with the murder weapon and the "irrefutable evidence" regarding McKeen's guilt. His grip tightened involuntarily on the steering wheel at the thought. At first, Grissom had contemplated just driving off and maybe heading right for the nearest police department, go rushing inside and draw Graves out into a crowd, but, then, motion by the trees caught his attention. Sara. She was just standing there, out in the open, away from the safety and comfort of numbers and the solace of the burial services. Her eyes were upon him, confused and wide. Grissom tensed as he recalled Graves's none too subtle threat.

"Where do you want to go?" Grissom inquired flatly, forcing his jaw to work.

Graves gave a fickle shrug of his shoulders. "Just drive. I'll tell you where to go."

xxxx

"Shit."

Sara swore when Grissom eased the SUV out of the row of cars and onto the long, lonely cemetery drive. She waited until the vehicle had reached a safe distance before bolting from her hiding place and towards her own car. She leapt into the tiny, champagne colored Cavalier she had rented upon arriving in Vegas and tore down the gravel drive, cursing the fact that she hadn't taken the snooty little rat-faced woman at the rental place up on the offer for insurance.

She made it to the edge of the drive and glanced about madly. Which way had they gone? Sara glanced to her right and spied the dark beige SUV that had to be Grissom's merging into traffic at the other end of the cemetery before peeling off after him.

xxxx

"Make a left here."

Grissom did as he was told, albeit with a scowl upon his face. Graves, however, in the back seat, didn't seem to notice or to care. Not that he would. Grissom had seen Graves's type before on a few rare cases. Graves was a true professional. He would not be phased if his captive was a little pissed. If anything, Graves probably savored every moment of it. When he glanced in the rear view mirror, he noted not only the stranger's serene expression, but also the light, creme colored vehicle that seemed to be approaching.

"Turn right here."

Grissom obeyed, noting that the offending, almost golden vehicle did as well; he sighed heavily. "We're being followed."

"I know," Graves replied cryptically. "It's of no concern."

Grissom shot the car behind them another quick glance, but it wasn't enough to catch any of the details of the driver that stalked them. "Friends of yours."

"More than likely friends of _yours_." There was a definite venom to Graves's words.

"Not likely," the entomologist piped up.

Graves smirked. "I'm betting a lovely, fetching woman with dark hair and eyes. Goes by the name of Sara Sidle?" The supposed agent chuckled to himself when he saw the muscles in Gil's neck go taut. "Make a left here. And, don't worry. I know you haven't told her anything. Otherwise, she wouldn't be following us, now would she?"

"She's a determined woman."

Graves nodded in concession as the Cavalier followed. "So she is." He leaned forward, closer to Grissom. "But, so long as you make sure she doesn't find out anything about our arrangement, she will be safe."

"We don't have an arrangement," Grissom forced himself to assert, tasting bile at the back of his throat.

"May I remind you that you are currently in possession of a highly illegal and blatantly unregistered firearm with no serial number?" Graves pointed out knowingly and coldly. "I would believe that my silence leaves _you_ indebted to _me_." The sharp man gave his firearm another little wave. "And vice versa, of course."

Grissom didn't say a word at first, knowing that he had already admitted that small, scathing truth to himself long ago. They were mutually entwined now in these lies and glancing fibs, concealing whatever grand game Graves played at, toying with Grissom so.

"Pull onto the highway. It'll give us time to talk like civilized adults."

Grissom gave a quick nod and obeyed, merging into traffic and skimming along the lanes. It was just after the lunchtime rush and well before nighttime traffic. The cars about him cruised along, some whipping past at lightning speed, but Grissom hardly paid them any attention aside from cursory glances here and there and mirror checks to be safe. He kept looking in the rear view mirror to Graves in the back seat and what had to be Sara following him.

Finally, Grissom asked the question that had been nagging at the back of his mind for some time. "How did you get your 'irrefutable evidence?'"

"You're a crime scene investigator, Dr. Grissom. What does the evidence tell you?"

Grissom sighed bitterly. "That you were there."

"Very good, Dr. Grissom." Behind them, Sara changed lanes to the left, putting herself on a slight diagonal to the SUV, as though trying to see just who was with her former lover; Graves shook his head and muttered, "If you would please lose your lady friend."

"Easier said that done."

Graves chuckled to himself. "I trust you'll find the means."

xxxx

Sara swore. Just when she had been inching up alongside Grissom's vehicle, just when she could almost see through the tinted windows whoever had been waiting for Gil, he managed to swing off to the right and onto an exit ramp for Las Vegas Boulevard at the last possible minute, towards the glittering lights and garish casinos of the Strip. She slammed her fist on the dashboard before taking the next exit and cutting towards the casinos, glancing in between the buildings to spy the beige truck.

xxxx

"Very good, Dr. Pull over here, if you will."

Grissom obeyed once more, pulling into the nearest parking spot in front of the Stratosphere as a sea of tourists milled past, all looking rather eager to ascend to the top observation decks. He reached his hand to the key and glanced back to Graves, who nodded. The entomologist cut the ignition but left the keys dangling there, sitting back in his chair and letting out a long, controlling breath.

"Why were you there?" Grissom finally demanded.

Graves had always seemed so cocky and brash, waltzing about with that smug little smirk of his. When that subtle curve of his lips melted away and any sense of satisfaction slipped from his eyes, Grissom found himself confused. The agent looked... disappointed somehow. He rubbed his chin, almost dolefully.

Graves shook his head and stared out the window, obviously scanning both the crowds and the traffic for Sara Sidle. "I hadn't originally intended to pick you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Graves shrugged, chortling oddly. "It means you should feel like the proverbial 'chopped liver.'" When Grissom failed to give any sort of a reaction to the insult, the agent shook his head. "I had originally intended to bring Warrick Brown on board. After all, he had more than enough motivation to take out our mutual friend, McKeen after the Gedda murder." Graves smiled distantly. "He reminded me of a protege of mine."

"And you let him die," Grissom snarled.

"I went to give him the same opportunity I gave you, but the undersherriff got to him first. Had I shown my face, it would have put my associates in jeopardy." Graves's lips pursed into a deep frown. "I couldn't do anything for Brown."

Grissom didn't say a word. He didn't need to. There was nothing else he could say to the stranger in the back seat that seemed to enjoy nothing more than holding him at gunpoint and toying with him so sadistically. Anything else Grissom could possibly say would just be fueling Graves's games, giving in to the agent's whims and feeding him. It was like working with a dog or a toddler; never encourage bad behavior by acknowledging it more than necessary.

"But you can do something for him." Grissom glanced in the rear view mirror, to the cocked eye of Graves. "You can make his death mean something."

"His death already means something."

Graves shrugged. "The decision is yours. I just wanted to know why you hadn't gone through with it yet. Just remember, the longer McKeen lives, the more damage he can do, the more people he can- and will- hurt."

Gil looked down, stung by the memory of Warrick. "I am not a murderer."

"I never said you were."

Grissom's eyes darted up just in time to see a familiar creme Cavalier parking on the other side of the street. "Company."

"I am well aware." Graves shifted behind him to slide to the side of the SUV facing the Stratosphere, opening the door and slowly unfolding his tall frame. "I just wanted to check on progress of the mission."

Grissom blinked at the curious wording, but Graves had already slammed the door and disappeared into the sea of tourists.

**XXXX**

**Author's Notes: **Sorry it took so long. Other muses were calling as plot bunnies were piling over my desk.


End file.
